


Flowers in the Window

by 27tattoos



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Art, Color Me Mine AU, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Sad, hippie!harry, this is incredibly cheesy so you're warned, this is really short and kinda weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:04:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27tattoos/pseuds/27tattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Earth laughs in flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers in the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from “Flowers in the Window” by Travis.
> 
> I got this idea from when I was watching a pottery video on YouTube at like three in the morning (?). I’m not sure if Color Me Mine exists anywhere besides the States, so if I doesn’t, I’ll explain: it’s basically a pottery store where you pick like a mug or a plate or something and you paint it, and then they bake it for you and you pick it up a day later. It’s really cool, actually. 
> 
> This particular one-shot is very, very cheesy. You’re warned right now. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr (winterlouie) or at ask.fm/More_Than_Stan if you have any questions or anything.
> 
> Enjoyyy.

_I hope one day you find someone who makes flowers grow in even the saddest parts of you._

The shop is just down the street from where Louis lives. The day previous had been the twin’s birthday, and they had (at last minute) decided to go to an artsy, lonely old pottery shop with a creaky sign declaring it as Color Me Mine. 

And so today, it is Louis’ job to pick up the makings of the twins.

“What d’you need, dear?” the old, kind-eyed lady from behind the counter asks Louis when he approaches the desk. 

“Uh, I’m here to pick up some mugs? Tomlinson?” Louis mumbles, not wanting to be heard by any of the other customers.

“Oh, yes. I remember those two yesterday, so charming. You’re their brother then?” the lady asks sweetly, but Louis nods. He’s never been good at making small talk, especially with people older than him. 

“It’ll be a minute dear,” the lady says while wiping her hands onto her burgundy apron that is slung tight around her middle. “We had a lot of customers yesterday.”

Louis nods again, turning around and leaning against the counter as he waits for the lady to bring back his sister’s mugs. He surveys the customers around the area, laughing when he spots a frazzled mom and her two kids, who are currently wreaking havoc at their table. 

Then he sees the boy.

He’s doe-eyed and concentrating hard, it seems. His tongue barely pokes out from between his lips, his eyebrows set in determination. Louis lays eyes on the piece of pottery he’s currently working on. It’s beautiful, but Louis believes beautiful is too dull a word.

There’s stripes and colors and all good things, all weaving together to create one extravagant masterpiece. It’s nothing like Louis has ever seen before, but the boy looks so unsure, so worried about it, so he must reassure him.

Before he knows it, he’s walking up to the boy, flashing a friendly smile and warm eyes. “Hello, sorry to bother you,” Louis simpers politely, offering clean teeth. “I’d just like to compliment you on your work. It’s beautiful.”

The boy looks up, and Louis is struck. A thinly-veiled, shy smile. A slightly-too-big nose. A single dimple cutting the skin on his cheek. Green eyes akin to supernovas.

“Thank you,” he says simply, a flicker of doubt in his eye, before he returns his gaze to the pottery.

Louis has never been anything but stubborn, so he sits down and smiles wider. “I’m serious. It’s brilliant. You should be an artist.”

“Thank you,” the boy says again, barely above a whisper. 

Louis decides that he must introduce himself to this beautiful creature, before he shrinks away in the shadows. “I’m Louis Tomlinson,” he says, extending a hand.

The boy eyes it for some time before gingerly accepting it, hardly clinging on to Louis’ warm skin. “Harry Styles,” he mutters.

Harry Styles. Sounds like a soft breeze, Louis notes in his head. 

“Nice to meet you, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and he watches Harry paint.

He watches Harry Styles stroke yellows and blues of inhumane brightness on his pottery. He watches him curl his lips in concentration, watches as his eyes flicker back toward the paint, watches as he carefully adds more detail. It’s fascinating, to say the least.

He watches Harry Styles paint until the lady is calling his name again, holding out a bag labeled “Color Me Mine” which assumingly contains his sister’s mugs. 

“Goodbye, Harry Styles. It was nice to watch you paint,” Louis says, right arm weighed down from the contents of the bag. 

Harry Styles looks up from his pottery and his lips are quirked up in a ghost of a smile.

“It was nice to meet you, Louis Tomlinson.”

And after that, Louis doesn’t stop thinking of Harry Styles. Even when he’s home. Even when he’s playing an ill-formed round of Mario Kart against his sisters. Even when he’s out with his friends.

So the very next day, Louis decides to see this Harry Styles again. (You know, just to check up on if he finished his pottery and whether or not he’ll be making a new one. No other reason whatsoever.)

By a stroke of luck or maybe a twist of fate, Harry Styles is sitting in that exact same spot, working on the exact same pot, it seems. 

“Still here?” Louis offers easily, taking a seat across from the curly-haired boy, who barely as much as lifts his head to acknowledge him.

“Louis Tomlinson. You’re back,” he drawls, and Louis feels a spattering of honey drip down his spine.

“I am. And you’re still working on the pot.”

Harry Styles says silent after that, and Louis just watches him, watches the way his finger twitches and his brows knit together.

“It’s looking even better today, Harry Styles,” Louis compliments, tilting his head and admiring the colors.

Harry Styles shakes his head. “You can just call me Harry, Louis Tomlinson.”

“And you can just call me Louis.”

And so after that, Harry and Louis become friends. Acquaintances, more like, but Louis doesn’t like that word. Too not-friend-like.

Louis visits Color Me Mine every day, and Harry is still sitting there every day. He works on the same pot every day. It’s become a routine, a daily comfort in Louis’ life, to see Harry work on his pots. 

“That’s lovely,” Louis comments every once in a while, and Harry will just smile, like he holds all the secrets to the Universe in his paintbrush.

Then again, that is most likely the truth.

Louis doesn’t know when he starts bringing Harry tea, but he does one afternoon, and that becomes their special thing. Harry never tells Louis what his favorite is, Louis had to learn via trial and error, but it’s still a nice ritual. 

Three weeks later, Louis still comes to see Harry every afternoon. By this time, Harry has already completed four different pots, and they get more lovely each time. Louis’ favorite by far is the one Harry is currently working on, which Harry says is “inspired by the screams of the mute”. Harry just paints raindrops on the pot, but whatever floats his boat is fine by Louis.

When questioned what he does with the pots, and why he paints at all, really, Harry answers in a wisdom-tinged tone. “Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter.”

Louis doesn’t really know what he means by that, but it sounds wonderful.

\----

It’s been two months since Louis first met Harry, and he doesn’t know when it hits him, but he is in love. He is in love with the way Harry bites his lip after completing a stroke. He is in love with the way Harry’s wrist flicks lazily up and down while he adds intricate detailing only a truly skilled painter could even hope to create. He is in love with the way the green in Harry’s eyes reflects the beauty in his face and soul. 

He doesn’t know what to do, so he asks Harry for a pot.

Harry just laughs, and Louis falls even more in love. Harry’s laugh is a sound that could only come from the highest part of heaven. “Of course I can make you a pot, Louis. I’ll put flowers on it. Would you like that?”

Louis nods vigorously, and Harry begins his new pot.

He adds swooping lines of green and sprinkles of yellow and dashes of blue. It’s the most concentrated Louis has ever seen him, and it constricts his heart valves, clogs his arteries with so much damn love.  
Two days later, when Harry finishes, Louis literally gasps. It’s beautiful. It’s more than beautiful. 

“I’m going to put this in my window, so everyone can see it and know that you made it,” Louis says, cradling the pot in his palms like it’s something precious, something of priceless value.

Harry wipes his forehead. “The Earth laughs in flowers,” he comments off-handedly, and Louis is even more fucking in love.

He doesn’t really know what to do at that point, so he just kisses him.

Louis kisses Harry, and it’s better than anything he could’ve imagined, could’ve dreamed of. Louis kisses Harry, and stars collide, galaxies tear, and the Sun itself pauses to watch. Louis kisses Harry, and the world around them stops existing, stops mattering.

After that, they kiss a lot. They kiss when Louis enters the shop, and when Louis leaves the shop. They kiss after Harry’s done with a particularly beautiful pot, and they kiss whenever they damn well please.

It’s a nice feeling.

And Louis holds onto that pot, the one with the flowers, and he does put it in his window. And whenever someone questions it, he answers “my boyfriend made it” with a sense of pride.

Harry takes Louis on a date some time after. It’s a beautiful one, albeit simple. Harry spreads a small picnic blanket on a grassy field surrounded by a bed of the most beautiful flowers one can imagine, and they watch clouds, and they tell lame jokes, and they form silly constellations. It’s the best date Louis has ever been on.

Louis tells Harry he loves him.

Harry returns the phrase.

They manage to fall asleep together after that, cuddled up on the blanket and under the stars. If you listened carefully, you might’ve heard the Earth laugh.

___

 

Harry develops a disease. He tells Louis that cancer runs in the family, and that he’s sorry for stealing Louis’ heart, but he’ll most likely die soon. 

Louis runs away, because he doesn’t want to believe it, can’t believe it. Harry can’t die, it isn’t possible. Harry is going to paint the world.

You’re going to paint the world, remember? Louis pleads with Harry once he’s returned from running away, and Harry sighs.

“I’ve already painted the world, Louis. Now I need to paint Heaven.”

They spend a lot of time in Harry’s hospital room after that. Louis sits in Harry’s bed with him, reading, singing, just talking. Harry likes to hear Louis’ voice.

“Look at that, darling. You see that vine on the wall there?” Harry says quietly one evening, pointing towards a line of leaves that snarls up the wall outside the window. Louis nods.

“When the last leaf has fallen, I’ll be gone. She’s given me that much time left.”

“Will you love me even after the last leaf has fallen?” Louis asks timidly, gripping onto Harry’s bony shoulder, and Harry smiles one of his wise smiles.

“Of course. I will love you even after this building crumbles and that vine ceases to exist.”

Louis cries into Harry’s neck, and they fall asleep together.

_______

 

There are two leaves left on the vine, Louis notices. He doesn’t want to point it out to Harry, though. He doesn’t want to worry him.

Harry spots it anyway, and he squeezes Louis’ side as he whispers, “It’s almost time to go, love. I’m needed up there, more than I am down here.”

“I need you,” Louis argues.

“You don’t need me. You love me. There’s a difference, I’m afraid. One of mankind’s flaws,” Harry sighs, and Louis clings onto Harry’s shoulder tighter.

Louis doesn’t fall asleep that night. He gets the idea when staring at one of the pots Harry has made that he put in the window, the one covered in flowers that he gave to Louis. Louis gave it back to Harry so he always has a reminder that Louis is with him. Harry can’t leave yet. The universe has made a mistake, Harry can’t leave.

So Louis slips out of the bed, leaving a snoring Harry by himself. He writes a note by Harry’s bedside just in case he wakes up and he’s not there.

He opens a drawer that contains Harry’s painting supplies, and quickly snatches up a paintbrush. It’s Harry’s favorite, the one with the crusty bristles and the colorfully-smattered handle. “True beauty comes from pain and wear,” Harry had said wisely one day when Louis asked about the paintbrush. He smiles at it now. He picks up some acrylic paint too, and then he’s out the door.

He steps out into the very cold, very rainy night. It’s freezing, absolutely freezing, but Louis pays no attention. He’s on a mission.

He stands outside Harry’s window, and he faces the vine which contains a single, dwindling leaf, now. He sighs, shivers, because it really is cold out here, and he paints. He paints, paints on the wall, paints into the bricks. He paints over and over, until he is 100% sure that it sticks. 

“There,” he mumbles proudly to himself, stepping back to admire his work. 

He turns to go back inside, to warm up his blood, and he accidentally steps on a nasty patch of ice. He slips backwards, and the world stops for a moment as he falls, and falls, and falls, down down down to the hard concrete ground. He lands right on his head.

It’s very quick, very painless, and very effective. In just one instant, in just one wrong step, and in just one act of love, Louis Tomlinson is dead.

_____

 

When Harry wakes up the next morning and doesn’t feel the warmth of Louis beside him, he immediately panics. He sits up and surveys the room fearfully, and then he catches sight of the note.

“Harry, don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m saving you. I love you. Louis.”

Although the note calms Harry down just a little, something seems off. Something is very wrong. Harry spends about 20 seconds in a state of full-blown anxiety when he looks out the window. He sees a body on the ground. A body that looks remarkably like Louis…

Harry rushes outside and wails when he comes across Louis.

An ambulance is sent, and Harry keeps sobbing and sobbing, begging Louis to come back to him, to be with him, to spend these last few days of life with him. He trails after Louis in the ambulance, and bites his nails as they try to revive him, even though he knows it’s a lost cause.

His fears are confirmed when the doctor gives him a pitiful look, and he breaks down again, sobbing and sobbing and devastated.

He wanders back to his hospital room, staring at the wall with a blank look, completely void of the passion for life that once resided in him. Louis was the one that gave him the passion, he realizes.

\-----

After about a week, Harry wonders why he is not dead yet. Surely the leaf has fallen by now?

He returns to the spot where Louis died, this time staring at the vine of leaves that still twist up the wall. When he notices what Louis has done, he bites back yet another surge of tears.

The leaf has been painted to the wall, painted with one of Harry’s own acrylics. The leaf is now permanently stuck the wall, and cannot fall. It will never fall.

And beside the leaf, there lies a quote, written in Louis’ handwriting.

_“I will love you_  
_Even when this building crumbles_  
_and the vine ceases to exist.”_

**Author's Note:**

> ***Before I forget: the two quotes were from such:**   
>  **“The Earth laughs in flowers.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson**   
>  **“Every portrait painted with feeling is a portrait painted of the artist, not the sitter.” – Oscar Wilde***


End file.
